


Impasse

by foxtrotter31



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, F/M, Fertility Issues, Marriage, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, eventually anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:52:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4801862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrotter31/pseuds/foxtrotter31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No more Blight, no more fighting for their lives; just Elissa, Alistair, and the memory of all that they lost along the way.</p><p>The years of Elissa and Alistair's marriage after the Blight, and the events that lead to her decision to go on the search to find the cure for the Calling.</p><p>New story summary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Warden No More

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! So as the summary says, this fic examines Elissa's life in the years after the Blight, and the events that lead up to Elissa deciding that she has to find the cure to the calling for herself and Alistair. There'll be angst practically dripping from this, which I haven't written much of in a while and I'm excited to get back to; I needed a lot of angst to balance out all the happy in my other more recent fics (if you haven't read my super fluff bomb "Of Tiny Kicks and Sleepless Nights," here's my shameless plug for it). I have another multi-chapter fic in the works that I may end up writing in tandem with this one as its enormously fluffy, mega-self-indulgent counterpart. We shall see ;)
> 
> I should also mention that, as I see it, without going into detail, any Cousland following the Blight's going to have a lot of emotional trauma to deal with, which I try my hand at detailing in this piece. I PROMISE this fic will end on a happy note, though. I've got a plan ;)
> 
> Finally, to this chapter: apologies for all the exposition; the others will have significantly less so. I found that this opening chapter needed it to really set the stage.

9:32 Dragon.

Alistair is proving to be a surprisingly good, if largely unwilling king, and Elissa is so, so proud. He and Elissa have taken a hands-on approach to fixing the endless ailments of a country ripped at the seams by brutal warfare, and they're often out in the streets of Denerim, overseeing the healing and reconstruction of the city and its people themselves. Many of the nobles find him charming and much less pompous than his late brother; his earnestness almost quaint. The people love his direct, honest nature; that he’s willing to speak to the masses as if he’s one of them (“I _am_ one of them,” he vehemently insists any time Eamon or Teagan or anyone else says that he’s not.) 

But he’s not one of them, at the very least not anymore. He’s never been one of them. Elissa knows this, and she knows there will come a time during his reign when Alistair will finally admit this to himself, but she knows better than to try to force him to realize that what he’s simultaneously fought against and desperately desired his entire life has always existed inside of him; in his soul, in his veins. Alistair is not like the rest of them. His nobility shines through his spirit; his heart. Her husband has always been a great man, never a common one. 

_Husband._ Nearly a year of marriage and Elissa still feels the freshness of the word, the way it’s almost too new to even believe, like when the snow starts to melt and the first buds of tulips appear as winter gives way to spring. It’s a sort of lightness, this feeling. A tickle in her belly when Alistair winds his fingers with hers under the table during dinner parties; a rush to her head as he pulls her into dark corners of the castle and kisses her senseless. They’re in love and they’re so very young, bursting into small council meetings late and out of breath, faces red but with laughter on their lips, her hair askew and sometimes his shirt on backwards and a dubious excuse for their tardiness as if no one knew what they were really up to, and Wynne issues a stern glare while Eamon wryly comments that he sometimes forgets the king and queen are little more than youths. 

And they are, more than absolutely anything, youths. At least she was, before the Blight arrived on her doorstep and Howe changed her life forever. That night, that one night that would set into motion the events leading to where she is today—that was the night where Elissa was forced to grow up, kicking and screaming. It’s hard. Sometimes Elissa feels old, older than she can imagine, the weight of the past two and a half years enough to bring her to a halt, and she has to rest under its immensity. Other times she feels impossibly young, childish; the whole world spinning faster and faster and she’s overwhelmed and wants to flee to a time when nothing mattered and anything was possible and her mother and father were there to each hold her hands and provide the parental comfort she futilely craves.

But they’re not there. They’re dead. And every once in a while, when it’s late at night and she lies awake with only her thoughts and her husband’s snores for company, a bitter chill creeps into her bones, furious at what Elissa’s lost, saddened for the life of joy stolen from her elder brother. And then Alistair rolls over and in his sleep lays an arm across her waist and clutches her closer, and there’s gratitude there, too—gratitude for what she gained with everything lost. She sinks into his touch and the bad feelings go away, banished for another time. 

So much is expected of her as queen, some of it welcome, some of it less so. She’s happy aiding Alistair in his rule, although much of the strain of having an entire country on one’s hands becomes hers to bear. It’s a bit of a shock, from spending a year living day to day on the road and in a tent to having everything she could possibly want at her beck and call. Fruits from across the nation, a hot bath every evening, tailored (and clean!) trousers and dresses. 

One morning, Elissa stood in front of a mirror as a seamstress circled her, making various alterations to a gown for later that evening as two servants assisted. “The gown should sit on your shoulders here, Your Majesty,” the elderly seamstress had said, handling the heavy fabric, “Leaving just the slightest bit of cleavage. And you have such excellent birthing hips as well! In this dress the king won’t be able to keep his hands off you, I’m sure we’ll be seeing little princes and princesses in no time,” she had said to Elissa with a wink in the mirror as the servants hid their giggles behind their hands.

“Um… sure,” Elissa had mumbled, her face hot. She’s still so young, barely twenty-two, and babies are far from her mind yet, the worry of the taint sullying her fertility a distant and dormant thing. And Elissa struggles to grapple with her adulthood; to take care of herself, let alone a child. Alistair had once warned her their chances of conceiving will be slim, but that’s something to think about another day, another year.

 

 

The letter comes on a Tuesday.

Elissa had put off opening it, immediately noticing the wax sigil when the messenger arrived hours earlier. She clutches it in strong hands, reading it once before dropping it to the floor next to the desk. Alistair enters their bedroom, lights a few candles, and nearly jumps out of his skin, having not noticed his wife slumped in an armchair in the dark, her arms slung over her chest in a pose reminiscent of a petulant child.

“Uh… Any particular reason you’re sitting in the dark?” Alistair says, one eyebrow raised in bemusement. 

Elissa doesn’t respond, instead wordlessly gesturing to the parchment resting at her feet. Alistair fetches it off the floor and Elissa watches him read it, his face dropping into a frown. He sets it down on the desk and runs a hand over his face. “This is—”

“I’m not going,” Elissa cuts him off, the strength and volume of her voice surprising even to her. “They can’t make me,” she adds, quieter.

Alistair sighs. “‘Strange things in the Deep Roads.’ I wonder what _that_ means. As if anything about the Deep Roads _isn’t_ strange.”  


“Nathaniel can handle it,” Elissa protests. “They don’t need me there. I’m not a Grey Warden, not anymore.” She gets up and stalks across the room. “And you can’t make me, either. You made me go to Vigil’s Keep a year ago and I agreed, but not this time, Alistair. I won’t do it. I never want to go back. Not to the Grey Wardens, and definitely not to the Deep Roads.”

Alistair crosses over to her and lays a hand against her back. “I’m not arguing with you, Love. I don’t want you to go anymore than you do.”

The tension in her body releases and Elissa melts into her husband’s touch, suddenly feeling rather childish from her outburst. She turns and gives him a sheepish smile. “Thank you. I’ll… write Nathaniel back in the morning. Hopefully he’ll understand.” 

But she knows he won’t. No one, except maybe Alistair, can understand how she feels, how this Blight is a sickness in her body, how she feels the pain of everything it’s caused. And the guilt, the huge, immense guilt of that final decision, that decision to take the coward’s way out and be selfish, to turn against everything the Grey Wardens stand for so that she and Alistair could live through that final battle. 

She can’t go back, because she’s not a Grey Warden. She’s not sure she ever was.


	2. Kept Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elissa discovers a secret and keeps one of her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got several more chapters planned... and it's probably going to get pretty angsty from here on out. Yay?

9:33 Dragon.

The wind whistles through the trees and birds chatter across the skies, pleased with the unusually warm weather for mid-spring, not late enough in the season for daily sunny skies but not early enough for the leaves on trees to not have burst forth from their seeds. Elissa’s crouched amid the underbrush upon a slight rise in the landscape, bow and arrow at the ready. 

“Easy, now,” She warns her dog in low, steady tones, he himself acting the focused hunter, eyes narrowed in the same direction as the end of her arrow. Adjusting a shoulder strap on her armor, Elissa regains concentration, arms taut and strong with the grip of her bow and the pull of her arrow. She sights down her target, holds still, and… releases.

The dog bounds off, a steady stream of happy barks trailing behind him, and Elissa stands, practically skipping with the fresh forest air surging through her lungs and adrenaline pulling her forward. 

“Looks like rabbit stew on the menu for tonight, Boy,” she says, patting her dog’s head as she approaches and removes the critter from his mouth, pulling the arrow out. “If only Alistair were here, then it’d be charred rabbit stew. Wouldn’t that be great.” 

Her Mabari woofs in sarcastic agreement as only a Mabari can, and the two make off for her makeshift camp.

 

As night begins to fall, the winds rolling off the sea cool the northern Ferelden air to a chill, but Elissa doesn’t mind it—the Waking Sea’s her true home, the temperamental and unyielding waves in her families’ blood for hundreds if not thousands of years, Cousland and Mac Eanraig alike. Warming her feet by the fire, she stretches her arms high above her—a move that relieves more tension than she thought she had as she pulls in fresh air to her lungs. On one side of her, bound tightly in gauzy fabric, lies what seems from the shape to be a tome of some sort, impossibly old by the smell of it, and heavy. Elissa has yet to unwrap it. On the other side, her dog sits on a blanket, chewing at the leftover meat from their meal of rabbit stew.

Elissa smiles, running her fingers through his short fur. “Look at me,” she says, humor coloring her voice, “I cooked my own dinner, and somehow it doesn’t taste like arse. Nan would be proud.” and her smile falters, as it still does at the good memories tainted by bitterness from some three years ago, from Elissa’s stubborn wounds that just won’t heal properly.

The dog raises his head from his meal, concern in his eyes, and plops his head in her lap. “Sorry,” she says. “Just… nostalgic, I guess.”

“So it’s been an eventful few weeks, hasn’t it?” She says, forcing cheer back into her voice. “Did a bit of traveling, discovered hidden places, that whole adventuring bit… saw our old friend again. I know you loved that.” 

The dog chuffs in pleased agreement.

Elissa thinks for a minute. “I don’t hate her, you know. I thought I did, but… I don’t.”

It’s quiet again, save for the creaking of crickets in the surrounding forest. “I miss our friendship. I miss… this,” She says, gesturing to the small camp. “It was the worst time of my life and I bloody _miss_ it.” 

“It’s not that I don’t like being the queen,” she continues, more to herself than the dog, “Because I do. And I don’t ever want to go back to the whole ‘Warden’ thing, but… I just… I miss this part of it. Sitting around a campfire with people I cared about and not having to be anyone but myself, I guess.”

Her dog looks up into Elissa’s eyes, and she sighs. “No point in reminiscing, I suppose.” She turns and gingerly picks up the package on her other side, placing it over her dog’s head. “Now, what could possibly be in this gift that Morrigan thinks I’ll be so interested in…” 

 

 

She’s home in less than a fortnight, having stuck off the main roads and keeping to the forest paths. A queen traveling all alone save for a single war dog (however tough and strong he may be) does not a safe trip make. The ransom would be enormous. 

She’s through the palace gates, servants immediately falling upon her, ushering Elissa to her dressing room to get her bathed and in clothing more becoming of the queen than her inconspicuous armor. 

It’s been a good couple of weeks since she’s had a proper bath, and Elissa’s glad to be back within the lap of luxury, sinking into the sudsy rosemary-scented water. There’s a sudden knock on the door, too loud to be one of the servants come to check on her, followed by a muffled inquiry of “Elissa?” And she smiles, knowing exactly who it is. There are little few in the world who’d dare address her without any title to speak of. She’s simply Elissa. Nothing more.

“Come in,” she responds, giddiness seeping into her voice, and in walks her husband, grinning like a fool, tall and regal in his kingly finery. He swoops in and plants a short yet sweet kiss to her forehead before settling himself on a stool beside the tub. 

“Gone a month, and that’s how you greet me?” Elissa teases, finding his hand and winding her fingers through his.

“And risk getting sopping wet? Oh, you can’t fool me, Woman. I know your tricks. I get any closer and you’d just yank me in there with you,” he laughs, dodging her teasing splashes. “Besides, I can give you a proper greeting later,” he adds, waggling his eyebrows.

“True on both counts.”

Alistair and Elissa smile at each other for a moment, taking each other’s presence in. “I missed you,” Elissa says, breaking their comfortable silence.

“I missed you more,” Alistair responds, bringing her hand to his lips. “You have no idea how good it is to have you back home.”

_Home._ She’s not sure when they both started to call the royal palace that, but she thinks she likes it. 

“Did you have a nice time in Highever?”

“Mm-hmm. Fergus says hello and to tell you that the next time he’s in Denerim he’s going to take you out for a drink.”

Alistair rolls his eyes. “Meaning, he wants to show off how he can drink me under the table. Wonderful.” 

It’s not a total lie, not really—Fergus _did_ say that, after all… in a letter. Still, total lie or not she’s surprised at how easily it comes, how Alistair doesn’t seem to notice the slight twitch of her nose or the way her grip on his hand loosens just a tiny bit. She can’t tell him the truth of her time away, doesn’t want him to know of her near-obsession with finding Morrigan; finding answers. 

She shrugs, and Alistair heaves a sigh. “Ah, well. I should leave you to your bath. Eamon wants to bore me with a lecture on diplomacy. Apparently my diplomatic skills are ‘atrocious.’ His words. Anyway, I’ll see you at dinner, then.”

Elissa nods and Alistair leaves and her smile melts and she sinks under the water, eyes closed and holding her breath, drowning in her guilt. She can’t tell him now, but perhaps one day, when the need’s grown too great to keep it locked away in the back of her mind any longer, she will tell him of Morrigan’s gift, and of what she’s found inside.


	3. Welcome Back to Highever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elissa and Alistair travel to Highever for an important event.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes. It has been quite awhile since I last updated. Sorry guys. This one was tough-- took me quite a long time to finish (it's much longer than the other chapters) and went through several revisions, and I'm finally happy enough with it to post.
> 
> You may notice if you've been following along I've changed the story summary; the new one better matches where I'm going with this.

9:35 Dragon.

 

The city of Highever’s at its most beautiful in the early summer. The annual storms have yet to begin, leaving the skies clear and the air warm; the waters of the Waking Sea still and clear during their yearly brief respite from thunderous waves. The people of northern Ferelden revel during this time, children flocking to the sea during the most suitable time of the year for swimming as the urban areas set up outdoor markets where local craftspeople and foreign merchants alike peddle their wares. As a child Elissa would roam the streets, a harried guard in tow if not accompanying Father or Mother, wrapping colorful Antivan scarves around her head; stuffing herself with sweet cakes; begging a Nevarran blacksmith to let her hold one of his blades. The early summers of Highever encompass some of Elissa’s best memories of her childhood.

And then, of course, some of the worst. Terrified wails. Fresh pools of sticky red blood. Sickly stench of burning bodies. The fun stuff.

“Your Majesty? Are you alright? You look a little ill.” Elissa bolts upright in her saddle, flung out of her brooding and into the present. The early morning sun beats down on the procession and the high stone gates of Castle Cousland loom in the distance, usually a welcoming sight but, on this such occasion, something closer to foreboding. 

Elissa looks over at the source of the voice: a woman, a newer member of the Kings Guard… Mary? Margaret? Elissa can’t recall her name. In any case, the woman’s pulled her horse up beside Elissa’s steed, and the expression on her face is one of concern. The procession rides on with her husband at the lead flanked by two high-ranking guards; Elissa having chosen to hang back around the middle of the line of their large company of guards and servants, significantly more men in their entourage than usual for a visit to Highever, but customary for a major event such as this. It only added to her growing anxiety. 

“Your Majesty?” The woman presses. 

“I’m okay, just a bit of a headache,” Elissa responds flippantly, attempting to wave her off. 

“Shall I ride forward and inform the king?”

“Don’t bother. I’ll be fine.” 

The guard stalls next to Elissa, seeming unsure of what to do. Just as Elissa in her growing annoyance is about to command the woman to just _bugger off,_ she makes her decision and rides off to join some of her fellows closer to the front of the line, and Elissa breathes a sigh of relief. The whole journey thus far she’s been fraught with unease and dread, no matter her efforts to psych herself into excitement for the occasion. Elissa shifts around in her saddle, trying and failing to get comfortable and enjoy the fresh air. 

Yes… _dread._ That’s the word to describe her state. 

They’re on their way to Highever because in a few days Fergus will be getting remarried. 

It’s terrible, her dread. That she’s struggling to find happiness for her brother should be a crime. Fergus deserves more than anyone to have some joy in his life. And she’s trying, for Maker’s sake, she’s trying to feel something good amid all this unease. But when she lies down to sleep at night it’s Oriana and Oren’s faces she sees in her dreams, faces bloodied and twisted in their pain. 

She pats her horse on the back of the neck and chuckles darkly to herself. How very morbid. 

A beautiful ride into Highever during the most beautiful time of the year, and she’s thinking of gruesome deaths. They should start calling her ‘The Queen of Brooding.”

There’s a bit of a disturbance in the procession as the horses in front of her slow down to allow for a rider to ride back down the line… Ah. Her husband, the lady-guard in tow. 

Straight-backed on his horse (but not too straight-backed, Elissa notes with a small bit of humor recalling the many times he’s fallen off), Alistair marches down the line, his eyes kind in their worry over her. As he passes guards bow their heads in respect, and Elissa can’t help but notice how much the men respect him; how he’s grown over the past few years, how very… _kingly_ he looks.

“Elissa, are you feeling okay? Ser Meryl here says you’ve a headache?” He asks as he approaches, “Meryl” slinking behind him. Of course Alistair would know her name. Elissa shoots the offending guard an accusatory glare. 

“Yes, but it’s fine. I told her not to bother you.” The woman’s face grows even more sheepish, and Alistair shoos her off.

“Here, I’ll ride with you.” It doesn’t get by Elissa how it’s not so much a suggestion as it is a command, brokering no room for argument. His horse falls into step next to Elissa’s, and they ride along in silence. 

After a minute or so, Alistair speaks again. “You know, you’ve really been missing out, not riding up with me in the front. Earlier the men and I saw three werewolves riding on the backs of giant bears. Stopped to chat for a bit, said they were on their way to Seheron to fight Qunari. I feel like there’s a really interesting story behind that one.”

Elissa tries to remain stoic and fails, her mouth quirking up at the corners.

Alistair grins. “There’s a smile.” 

“That was a very stupid joke.”

“But it did its job, didn’t it?”

Elissa rolls her eyes and Alistair glances around them at the other riders, and once confident no one’s near enough to listen, leans in closer to her. 

“So what’s really going on?” He says quietly.

“Nothing, besides the fact that some of the guards can’t mind their own bloody business. Can’t I brood in peace?”

“Elissa.”

She doesn’t look at him, instead focusing on the gates of the castle still in the distance albeit rapidly approaching. “I want to be happy for him. I’m just… having a hard time doing that.”

Alistair’s quiet, contemplative. “He really likes Mara.”

“I know. I know he does.”

“I think she makes him happy.”

“That doesn’t mean he loves her,” she says in a rush. “He doesn’t have to just marry any girl who comes his way. He doesn’t have to do this now, he doesn’t—”

Suddenly Elissa’s breath seizes in her throat; hands clenching and nails digging into her palms. The castle gates loom closer. 

“Elissa? Are you alright?”

“I…” She finds her breath again and looks over into Alistair’s sympathetic eyes. “This is… this is hard for me.”

“I know.”

“I _am_ happy for him. At least—I’m trying to be.”

“I know.”

Elissa eyes her husband and sighs, turning back to face the road ahead of them. They ride along in silence for a few companionable moments. A minute or so passes before Alistair speaks again.

“Fergus is worried about you.”

Elissa’s head snaps towards Alistair. “How do you know?”

“We write, of course.”

“About me?”

Alistair shrugs. “Among other things. Let’s just say I know a fair share of embarrassing stories from your childhood.”

“Eugh, the fact that you two somehow manage to get along never ceases to amaze me.”

He grins. “I like your brother. A bit scared of him, sure, but I like him.”

Elissa rolls her eyes. “Well, since you’re so chummy, tell him to stop worrying. I’m fine.”

“Tell him yourself. Look.”

She glances in front of them; they’ve grown close to the castle. Too close. Elissa’s stomach does a flip—the same flip it does every time she visits home. For she loves Highever, loves visiting Fergus—but there are ghosts here. 

“Oh. Good.”

Alistair chuckles. “Don’t worry, Love. We’ll have fun together, I’ll make sure of it.”

“Promise me you won’t get too drunk?”

“Promise.”

 

Not much has changed about Castle Cousland’s stone walls and dark wooden floors since before the Blight; certain aspects remain preserved in time, Elissa suspects, to give Fergus some sense of familiarity. To everyone’s surprise Howe (Elissa still has trouble even thinking that man’s name without a snarl in her throat) hadn’t destroyed much— _why ruin perfectly good clothes? He wanted to be us so badly he probably was saving them for his own family,_ Fergus had snarked to Elissa when they had first combed through the wreckage years ago. Howe’d even left behind the portraits in the great hall of Bryce and Eleanor. Probably for target practice. 

After taking back the castle, Fergus started sleeping in their parents’ bedchamber. Claimed it was only right, to the servants. It was the master bedroom, and as Teyrn that room was his, as it had been his father’s and grandfather’s. But as Elissa knew her brother, she knew the truth: there were too many memories in his old bedroom, too many imprints left of Oren and Oriana.

Elissa’s old bedroom, on the other hand, has remained mostly untouched save for a few keepsakes rescued and brought to the palace in Denerim, and it’s where she sleeps every time she comes for a visit, where the king sleeps when he goes with her, a few extra guards stationed outside the door. 

“Hmm, interesting,” Alistair mutters to himself from his spot lounging across the bed, just barely loud enough for Elissa to hear.

“What is?” Elissa sits before the large vanity mirror, pulling the silver brush she’s had since childhood through her hair before getting ready for bed. It’s an odd sensation, sharing the intimate details of her life before the Blight with her husband—but not an unwelcome one. 

“Young, adolescent Elissa. Her crush on an unnamed stable boy is the stuff of the greatest of romance novels. Riveting.”

“What? What are you—” Elissa wheels around and finds Alistair grinning mischievously and engrossed in a book, the engraved leather binding a telltale marker of her old journal. 

“Hey! Give it back!” 

“Never!” Alistair cackles, bounding off the bed and dancing out of Elissa’s reach as she gives chase. Alistair reaches the edge of the room, and cornered, holds it straight up above his head. 

“Hah,” he says breathlessly. “Must be pretty awful, being short. So many things you can’t reach.”

“ _Alistair!_ ”

“Fine, fine. I’ll give it back—just answer me one thing.” Elissa crosses her arms in front of her, a scowl on her lips. “What became of this stable boy?”

“His family moved to Amaranthine. I had spoken to him a total of four times.”

“Tragic.” Alistair holds the journal out and Elissa snatches it from his hands, moving over to the bed. 

“And his name was Will!” She shouts, laughter on her tongue as she hurls a pillow at Alistair’s face, and he catches it, laughing as well.

It’s a well-worn journal, a gift from Nan that lasted her a few years; Elissa’d been bad about writing in it, and only wrote sporadically when the inclination hit her. Still, there’s much to be found of her younger life hidden within its pages. 

“Where did you find this?” She asks, thumbing through it as Alistair sits next to her on the bed.

“Peeking out from underneath your dresser. Nabbed it when you weren’t looking,” he says, sliding his arm around her waist. “It’s very informative.”

“Good, I’d hate to think my private journal didn’t _entertain_ you enough.” 

Alistair gets up and heads over to the corner of the large room where the servants had placed a trunk full of his clothes, rifling through it. Elissa continues flipping through the book, old memories crashing into her. There’s unrequited crushes on young stable boys, sure, but also fights with Nan, trips with Father. Hunts with Mother. Fergus’ first wedding; the frustration she’d felt at her big brother _growing up,_ the eventual excitement of the event even if the bride didn’t seem to like Elissa very much, the embarrassment of her parents’ friends commenting that it was _her turn next._ And then not long after, the birth of her nephew and watching Fergus create his own little family.

Only for it to be set aflame and torn to pieces. Literally.

She sets the journal aside on the nightstand, not sure what to do with it. Perhaps throw it in the fireplace. 

Now dressed in sleep pants, Alistair returns to the bed and climbs under the covers, lying on his arms folded underneath his head.

“I bet you were really cute as a child.”

“I was a brat.” Elissa moves to get underneath the covers as well—the same covers she’s had most of her life. She lies on her side, her head on Alistair’s chest and an arm holding herself to him.

Elissa senses the look of concern Alistair must be giving her; the same look he’d been giving her a lot lately. She closes her eyes, breathing deeply. 

“Elissa… I know this wedding’s bringing up a lot of feelings for you, I get that. I just…” She can feel his sigh; the rise and fall of his chest beneath her head. “It’s going be fine tomorrow. You’ll get through it.”

Elissa sighs too. “I know. I always do.”

They cease talking then, and Elissa closes her eyes, hoping that maybe sleep will come to her.

 

The wedding ceremony itself had gone off without a hitch. Mara’s family had cried, Elissa kept her grimacing to a minimum, and Fergus and his new bride beamed at each other from across the aisle as the Revered Mother lead the ceremony, looking happy enough to dissipate some of Elissa’s worries. Now the celebration is underway as Fergus’ hundreds of guests crowd into the great hall for food, drink, and dancing; many gliding about the center as the musicians play song after song, while others gorge themselves on venison and stew, sweet rolls and spiced wine. Laughter and merriment alights the air.

It's all a bit much. 

“Having fun, love?” Alistair’s arms snake around Elissa’s middle from behind, startling her from her position alone next to the hors d’oeuvre table quietly observing the dancers; Alistair’s voice next to her ear and his breath smelling heavily of the wine. Elissa extricates herself from his arms and turns; a brow raised at Alistair’s sloppy grin. 

“Your crown in crooked.”

“And so it is. Fix it for me, would you, my dear?”

She rolls her eyes and reaches up to readjust his crown. Alistair slips her hand into his at his temple and brings it forward, placing a kiss in her palm. “Have I ever told you what an amazing, wonderful, brilliant wife you are?”

Elissa can’t help but smile. “Thank you, but you’re drunk.”

“Oh, no, not drunk. Tipsy, sure, most definitely, but drunk? No.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Honest!” He crosses himself. “And you didn’t answer my question.” 

“I—”

“‘Scuse me? Your Majesty?”

A little boy of no more than five or six years tugs on one leg of Alistair’s pants, surrounded by a gaggle of four or five other assorted children; the offspring of various guests of the wedding. 

Alistair looks to Elissa, but she only shrugs, perplexed as well, and he turns back to the children. “Uh…Yes?” 

The lad’s face freezes as his nerves seem to get the better of him, and an even younger girl steps forward, brazen as a mabari. “Is it true you once fought off a whole pack of werewolves with your bare hands? My mummy says that’s rubbish, but we think it’s true.”

Alistair’s face breaks out into a grin, and he kneels down to the children’s height, leaning in conspiratorially. “That…is most certainly, _absolutely_ true.”

The children all gasp, their eyes wide in their innocence. 

“And do any of you know what a werewolf sounds like when it’s about to attack?”

They all shake their heads ‘no,’ and Alistair’s grin grows wider. “It sounds…like…this!” 

Alistair roars comically, and the children all squeal and run as he chases after them, hands in the air imitating claws. Shouts of “Get him!” ring out and they break into a brawling mess, little ones piling themselves on the king as they valiantly orchestrate their attack, the ‘werewolf’ growling and stomping about. 

“He’s got quite a way with children, doesn’t he?”

Elissa turns to the source of the voice—Fergus’ new bride stands at Elissa’s side, the woman’s hands clasped low in front of her pretty white dress, a pleasant smile on her face.

“You’re right, he does,” Elissa murmurs, gazing back over to her husband still at play with the little ones. She can’t help but notice how his face is lit up, how _good_ he is with them; the naturalness of it. Not for the first time she wonders what it would be like to have their _own_ little one, a burgeoning bud of a desire planting itself in her mind, and her heart flutters.

Elissa can feel the woman’s expectant eyes still on her—expectant of what, who knows—and a sudden shyness washes over as she tries to come up with something to say.

Awkward.

“I, ah… Your dress looks really pretty, Lady Mara,” Elissa settles on at last. Clothing compliments never fail. “…Or should I say… Teyrna Mara, I suppose. You _have_ married my brother, after all.”

“Oh, please just call me Mara. We are family now, dear sister,” she says, clasping her fingers around the queen’s hand.

Elissa bristles, ripping her hand away. 

In that one instantaneous second, Mara steps away, her head bowed in suppliance, eyes wide and face red. “Please forgive me, Your Majesty, I… I forgot that… I should never have presumed…”

“No, it’s… it’s fine. You just took me off guard. Nothing to be sorry about.” Elissa’s face burns something fierce. 

_Embarrassing._

The music that was at first background noise suddenly grows too loud, the many people too overwhelming.

“Excuse me,” Elissa mumbles, pushing past her new sister-in-law.

Beyond the doors of the great hall, the sounds of the revelry mute and fade into the background. Elissa slumps against a wall, eyes closed and steadying her breathing, relieved to get out of that stunted and uncomfortable conversation. If one could even call it that.

She pushes off the wall and heads off, no destination in mind, nodding at guards who regard her warmly as she passes. 

Past the kitchens, past the dining hall, past the library. She turns another corner, and there, displayed high against the wall, is what her feet have been leading her to: an ornate portrait of the Cousland family. A relatively young Bryce stands, the beginnings of laugh lines around his eyes, a hand clasped on eleven-year-old Fergus’ shoulder standing before him. Eleanor sits next to her husband, a slight smile on her lips even as her fierce gaze penetrates the painting, four-year-old Elissa sitting in her lap.

“Do you remember when this was painted?”

Elissa jumps. Fergus approaches from behind, moving to stand next to her, his eyes on the painting as well. Elissa doesn’t know how long she’s stood there, staring at the face of her father, of her mother. 

“Not really.” Small impressions—Mother’s scent, sandalwood and something else. The sweet taste of the candy Mother gave little Elissa on her tongue. “Do you?”

Fergus gives a rueful smile. “A bit. I remember we had to stay still like that for hours at a time—you were supposed to stand, but you kept wriggling around so much Mother had to hold you still.” He chuckles, softly. “When it was over, Father promised me I’d never have to pose for a portrait ever again, the liar.”

Elissa laughs then, gazing over at her brother. She wonders how he found her here, why he’s left the party. Perhaps Mara told him to follow her. Or perhaps Fergus, too, needed space to catch his breath. 

“You look just like him, you know. Father.”

“Thanks. Although I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment or a comment on my age.”

“You’re about the same age as him when this painting was done… and it’s meant as a compliment.”

“True,” Fergus murmurs, staring at the painting some more. What does he see, when he looks at what their family once was?

“Shouldn’t you be dancing with your bride?”

“Needed to take a bit of a breather. What about you?”

Elissa shrugs. “I’ve never been very good with crowds.”

“That makes two of us.” They fall silent for a moment, and Elissa takes in her brother’s appearance: the hollowness that filled his eyes in the past few years seems to have subsided, at least a little bit. He seems… brighter, somehow, brighter than she’s seen him in a long time.

“I, uh, think I scared off your wife.”

“What?” Fergus’ brow scrunches up. “What did you do?”

“She grabbed my hand and called me ‘dear sister.’ I… reacted badly. Sorry.”

“Maker’s ass, Elissa…”

“I really just jumped a bit,” she adds hastily, “And I apologized immediately. So hopefully I haven’t done too much damage.”

He sighs, rolling his eyes up towards the ceiling. “Impulse control, ‘dear sister.’”

“Right. Never really had much of that, have I.”

“Well…” Fergus concedes, “it’s part of your charm.”

They stare at each other a moment, though not without a fond warmth between the two of them.

“So… What do you think of her? Of Mara, I mean. Be honest.”

Elissa’s breath does a sharp intake. “She’s fine.”

She’s nice enough, and she’s pretty enough, but she’s not anything at all like Oriana. Where Oriana was fire and satin, Mara is daisies and cotton. Sweet, simple. But there’s not a woman in the world who will be anything like Oriana. 

“You didn’t have a very long courtship,” she adds.

“Neither did you.”

“That was different.”

“Was it?”

“Alistair and I were together _every single day_ , Fergus. For a _year._ Of course it’s different. You’d, what, visited with her a few times? Sent some letters?”

“I appreciate your concern, but I’m a grown man, Elissa. I know what I’m doing.”

Elissa throws her hands up, exasperated. “You’re impossible.”

“I could say the same about you.”

“Do you love her?”

“I care for her very much.”

“So ‘no,’ then.”

“Elissa,” Fergus says, voice low in warning, “I’m not going to do this with you. Not today.”

Oh, right. She’s supposed to be happy for him. Elissa’d forgotten her promise to herself.

“Not every marriage’s a love match,” he continues. “You got lucky.”

_And so did you the first time around,_ she wants to say, but the words catch on her tongue.

“You’re right,” she says at last. “I got lucky. I’m sorry, Fergus. I really am happy for you. I just… you know.”

She doesn’t have to finish her thought for him to understand. “Yes,” Fergus agrees. “I know.”

The siblings share a sad smile with each other, and Fergus looks back up at the large painting before them.

“You really look a great deal like Mother, yourself. You’ve even got her wild temper and everything.”

Elissa punches Fergus in the arm, but it lacks conviction and they break out into laughter as Fergus swats her back. 

“We should probably get back to the party. Our spouses might start to worry.”

“Agreed.”

Elissa takes one last look at her family painting before following her brother back.

 

As soon they’re through the doors Mara’s upon Fergus, and the music shifts to a slower song as she pulls him to the dance area. Elissa stands there, straightening her coronet and scanning the crowd. The group of people before her part, and the king strides forward. 

“There you are,” he says, approaching her. “Where’ve you been? I was worried.”

“Just chatting outside with Fergus for a bit.”

“Ah. Well, now that you’re here…” Alistair dips into a bow, hand outstretched toward her. “May I have this dance, My Lady?”

“Really? You? Dance?”

“This is your one chance, Love. I’d take it if I were you.”

“Only if you don’t stomp on my toes.”

“No promises.”

Elissa snorts, but places her hand in his, and Alistair leads her over to the dance floor, and she forgets her worries and her fears, if just for this one moment.


End file.
